


to halt the tide

by Storynerd



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: 160 Fix-it, Angst, Apocalypse averted, M/M, Post-MAG159
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24879193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Storynerd/pseuds/Storynerd
Summary: In which the apocalypse is averted, not by any plan, but by a simple moment of human clumsiness.Martin, Jon, a Scottish cabin, and what comes after the world doesn't end
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 9
Kudos: 181





	to halt the tide

**Author's Note:**

> Me: I just want them to be happy  
> Also me: *writes 4k of angst before they get to the happy bit*
> 
> Out of practice at writing and also first foray into the Magnus Archives; unbetaed so please let me know if you spot any typos!
> 
> TW for: Talk of suicide/ideation (no character death). Description of panic attack/anxiety. Mention of animal death. If any of these are an issue for you, please check the End Notes for more details. If you find any other triggers that should be warned for please tell me!

It’s an accident, really. Just a simple mistake, a moment of uncoordination. Very… human. A fitting way for the world to not end.

How it happens is this:

Martin had picked up the envelope from the tiny post office in the village. He’d recognised the writing on the front, strong and blocky: Basira’s. Statements, then. Good. He knows not having access to any is making Jon… edgy. Not the sharp, biting hunger, not yet, but an anxiety that if the craving did strike he would have nothing to sate it with. They weighed down his bag on the walk back to the cottage. When he gets in, part of him wants to delay handing them over. Delay letting the hold the Institute still has over them slip back into their lives, their little pocket of domesticity they’ve been carving out together here. It’s… nice, even if their immediate conversation is about if they are likely suspects in a “terror attack”. Jon smiles softly through it, as if he can’t help but be pleased to see Martin back after he’s spent an hour or so in the village. It’s been like that between them since… well, since leaving the Lonely, really. Not a dramatic shift in the way they act, talk, look, but a gentle shifting, like gravity has been slightly altered. Drawing them together.

But Jon then spots the envelope Martin is holding, and his eyes gravitate towards it like he can’t help but look.

“Ah, these are the statements,” he says.

“Yes, Basira said last week she’d send some up as soon as the Archives weren’t a crime scene,” Martin agrees. And goes to rip open the envelope.

This is when it happens.

Maybe the paper of the envelope is cheap and thin. Maybe it got wet on the journey. Maybe Martin is just a little clumsy, a little too vigorous with it. Whatever the reason, the result is this: instead of tearing neatly along the top, leaving Martin to pull the papers out in one large sheaf, to hand them to Jon, to step out in the name of privacy and to witness the sky tearing itself open into a great and terrible eye…

Instead, the envelope splits down the side, and Martin loses his grip on the shifting sheets of paper inside. They spill out, onto the floor, and he stoops down to gather them back up, swearing quietly under his breath.

“Fighting back, is it?” Jon asks, wry and teasing, and steps over to help. Martin looks up at him, fakes a glare while shuffling the papers back together, then looks back down at the pile he’s making.

And feels his heart stop in his chest.

He’s not sure what it is about the words that instantly draw his eyes to them (that’s a lie, somewhere deep down. He’s no Archivist, but he’s marked by the Eye all the same) but even a skim read is enough to strike deep, cold fear into his heart.

“Martin?” Jon asks, joking gone. Martin doesn’t know what his face looks like, but it must be bad, as Jon crouches next to him, goes to put a hand on his shoulder. This brings him closer to the statement scattered across the floor, and Martin jerks abruptly back, making Jon freeze. “Martin, what’s wrong?”

“This…” his tongue feels like it’s dried to the roof of his mouth. “This isn’t a statement. I think… I think it’s from Elias – from _Jonah_.” He can feel his heart pounding as he scoops up the pages of it he can see, gathering them away from Jon, scanning the words again. They don’t change. He feels like they’re burning into his eyes; the dreadful invocation.

_Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and leads and **dies**._

“Martin?” Jon asks again, and reaches for the paper he’s holding. Martin snatches it back, out of his reach.

“I think this is… some kind of ritual.” His voice is shaking. “Jon, this is meant to use _you_. To bring all the fears at once.”

Jon draws back sharply. “What?”

“It’s… it’s about you. From Eli – Jonah. About how he… _made_ you. Into a perfect vessel, to invoke all of them…” he trails off. He’s dimly aware that his hands have gone ice-cold, but it’s vague. Like he’s not really inhabiting his own body. Jon reaches for the paper again, and Martin clutches at it tighter. “No, don’t – don’t _look_ at it! Jesus, Jon, that’s what he wants!”

“Well if you won’t… if I can’t look at it, can you at least explain?” Jon still looks concerned, a crease pressed between his eyebrows, but there’s something else there. A touch of hunger in his eyes, which keep drifting to the paper Martin is holding. Like it’s calling to him.

Martin carefully keeps the back of the paper facing out, so the words are hidden. “I think… I need to read this properly first. But I don’t think you should see it. I think… I think that might make it happen.”

“Right. Right, well… I guess I’ll… give you a minute?” Jon stands, takes a step back. Martin looks up from the paper and nods.

“I’ll be quick about it,” he promises, and pushes himself up to his feet too. “I’ll just… go read this in the kitchen, if that’s okay?” And with that he turns, carrying the end of the world in one hand, and steps out of Jon’s view.

* * *

Reading the… not-a-statement through in full does nothing to quiet the sick feeling in Martin’s stomach. The immediate, adrenaline-thumping fright has been replaced by a cold, pressing dread. It settles on his limbs, fills his lungs and throat, and seems at once so alike and so unlike the soft, cloud-wet cold of the Lonely. Martin still feels a little like he’s not really occupying his own skin, like everything is happening vaguely third-hand. He’s fairly sure it’s the afterburn of a panic attack, actually. But he’s got a handle on what the… spell? Ritual? From Jonah Magnus says. With that in mind, he gets up from the kitchen table, where he’s been hunched for what feels like hours, paper still clutched in his hand like letting go will make it a reality. He scratches through a kitchen drawer for a moment, until he finds the gas lighter for the stove. He clicks it on, holds it to the edge of the statement, and keeps it there til it starts to glow and curl and blacken. He keeps it there until the flames spread across the page, til the words twist and distort, til the page finally burns out and disintegrates into scattered fragments of ash.

The smell of burning must have brought Jon in, because he’s suddenly there, grabbing the last burned scraps and tossing them into the sink, and it’s only as this happens that Martin realises his fingertips are burned too, a sharp, red pain. He shakes himself, once, sharp, and focusses on Jon, in front of him, face creased and mouth tight with worry, one hand on each of Martin’s shoulders, looking about ready to shake him out of… whatever state he’s in.

“Martin?” Jon’s voice is soft, gentle, despite how anxious he looks. “Are you alright?”

“I… yes, yes, I’m fine. Just… shocked.”

“What _was_ that? What was in that statement?”

So Martin tells him. He very, very carefully does _not_ say any of the words of that horrifying incantation. He skirts it as much as possible, in fact. “There was a summoning” will do. The idea of a world in which all of the Fourteen are fully realised is not one he wants to think about. He won’t risk it actually coming about because he accidentally told the one man who could make it happen the words that were needed. Not that he thinks Jon would ever, _ever_ want such a thing to happen. But Jonah Magnus, in his written letter, seemed very certain that should Jon start reading those words, he wouldn’t be able to stop. The chance that hearing them might have the same effect is not one worth taking.

Jon is pale by the time Martin finishes. He sits back in the chair he had sank into not long after Martin started talking. His hands are shaking. Martin reaches out and covers them with his own. Jon flips his hand over, gripping onto Martin’s like it’s a lifeline. Like without it he’ll sink. They sit in silence for a long moment. Eventually, Jon clears his throat.

“I… thank you, Martin. God, thank you, _thank you_ ,” and his voice cracks, and Martin can’t take it any longer and he’s out of his chair, round the table, and he gathers Jon into his arms, holding tight. He feels the shudders wracking Jon’s frame, and can’t tell if it’s the tremors of shock, or if he’s crying.

* * *

The cosy, quiet normality that they’ve had since coming to the cottage has been shattered. It’s been less than a day since Martin destroyed the false statement, and they’ve barely spoken to each other. The awfulness of what almost was hangs thick in the air. Last night, they clung to each other in the cramped double bed they’ve been sharing since they moved here. Martin barely slept, catching brief snatches in between faded nightmares, and he’s sure Jon didn’t fare any better. Now, in the cold grey light of a wet Scottish morning, sat across from each other at the kitchen table, he comes to a decision.

“We have to talk about this.”

Jon looks up from the mug of tea he seems to have been contemplating. “Yes, I suppose we do.” He sounds… deeply tired. “I’m not… sure where to start.”

Martin has to laugh at that, although it’s little more than a weak chuckle. “No, me neither.” He traces a meaningless pattern on the battered tabletop. “But… we have to do _something_ , right? I mean, he’s not exactly going to just give up after one stab, is he?”

“No. No, I can’t imagine he is.” Jon stares even deeper into his tea. Martin wants to tell him there won’t be any answers in there, but it’s unfair to joke at a moment like this.

“So… what do we do?”

Jon sighs, pushing his hair back from where it’s fallen to curtain his face. “I think that’s fairly obvious, really.”

“Uh. Is it?” Maybe everything is obvious when you’re an avatar of the Eye. Apparently not if you’re just a lowly assistant.

Jon nods, slowly, although he doesn’t look all that pleased about it. “Yes, I think it is. I’m the key to this… ritual, you said?”

Martin nods, hesitant.

“Well then it’s easy.” Jon swirls his tea once before taking a sip. “If I’m so essential to Magnus’s plan, then we can set him back decades very easily. I just need to… remove myself from the equation.”

It takes a moment to sink in. When it does, Martin feels ice drop into his stomach. “Jon. You’re not… you _can’t_ be saying…”

Jon nods. “It’s the obvious solution, isn’t it?” When he looks up, his face is impassive. Blank. “If I die, all his plans are reset back to zero. It could take fifty, a hundred, maybe even more years before he finds another Archivist who is marked by all the fears. He might never manage it again.” He must read the look on Martin’s face, because he presses on. “Look, it’s not that I _want_ to… kill myself, but you have to admit, looking at the facts… it’s got to be the only way to stop this happening.”

“No!” Martin pushes away from the table, standing suddenly. “No, no it’s _not_ the only way! It can’t be!” He can feel a slight hysterical edge forcing its way into his voice. “Jon, you can’t. You _can’t_. it’s not some… hypothetical idea we’re talking about, it’s _you_. You can’t…” He chokes on his next words, trying to squash them back, but the selfish idea slips out unbidden: “You can’t leave me like that. Not you too.”

Jon’s careful mask cracks, at that. His face crumples, folding in a little, and he stands up, steps closer until he can rest a hand on Martin’s arm. “I don’t… Martin, I don’t want to leave you. God, of course I don’t. You’re… you’re the only good thing that’s happened to me in so long. But… don’t you see that’s why I have to do it? I can’t risk the _world_ because I’m too selfish to let you go.”

Martin only realises he’s crying when he tries to speak and finds his throat thick with it, strangling him. “No. No, no, I can’t let you do this. Not even for the world, Jon, not if there’s even a chance of another way. You haven’t… you haven’t even looked yet, you don’t _know_ – ”

“It’s not worth the risk, Martin,” Jon says, voice gentle now. “The whole _world_. Just… think, what it would be like if all the fears ran rampant. I don’t… I can’t trade all that for my life. Not when I’m… barely any better.”

“Is that - ?” Martin breaks off, leans back a little so he can see Jon more clearly. “God, that is what you think, isn’t it? That your life is a fair trade, because you think you’re just another monster, don’t you?”

Jon shrugs. “I guess… yes.”

Martin remembers Daisy saying something along these lines, what feels like years ago. _“Thinks he’s not human any more. Makes him very… self-destructive.”_ He feels sick. “Jon,” he says, trying to be firm. “You are _not_ like them. You’re _not._ You are human. You’re – you’re worth more than that. You _are_ worth it, worth at least – at least _looking_ for another way, at least _trying_ to, to stop him, to do _something_ that isn’t just – giving _up_ – ” he can feel himself spiralling, panic gripping his lungs, and he grips his hair in both hands, pulling until the roots smart on his scalp, anchoring him.

“It’s not giving _up_ – ” Jon interjects, hovering at his side like he’s scared to touch. “It’s – Martin, we are talking about the _apocalypse_ here, it’s not – ”

“ – It’s not an _option,_ Jon!” Martin bursts out. “I won’t let you do this, I _won’t_ , I won’t stand by and see you throw your life away because of some… crazy ritual by some power-hungry _thing_ that doesn’t know when to just _die_ , and I won’t let you _kill yourself_ just to run away – ” he has to stop, because he’s hyperventilating. It’s like his lungs are tangled, tripping over themselves, and he can’t tell if he’s breathing in or breathing out and his fingers are starting to go numb and his legs can barely hold him and his vision is fuzzing slightly and –

\- And Jon grabs his hand, grabs tight, and pulls him back to his chair, pushes him into it, and grips his face lightly between his scarred hands. “Okay. Okay. Breathe, Martin, breathe, steady, steady…”

Martin tries, and mostly succeeds, drawing in a ragged breath, trying to match the pattern to the steady cadence of Jon’s voice. As soon as he has air enough in his lungs, he grabs Jon by the shoulders and holds on. Tight. “You are _not_ leaving me like this, Jon. _Please_.”

Jon leans forward, rests his forehead against Martin’s. this close, Martin can feel him shaking. Trembling. “Okay. Okay, Martin. I won’t… we’ll look for another way. We’ll look.”

The relief is so strong it’s dizzying. “You promise? You won’t… do anything stupid?”

“I won’t. I promise, Martin.”

* * *

That doesn’t solve it, of course. For one, it’s not exactly easy to look for a way to subvert the end of the world while stuck in out in a tiny village in the wilds of Scotland. Without so much as an internet connection, unless they want to catch a bus to the nearest place that could charitably be called a town to use the library, their options for research are limited. While Daisy’s safehouse is very well situated for meeting good cows and avoiding the world at large, it’s not the ideal place to mount a counter-strike against an all-knowing power of nightmares from.

For another, despite Jon’s promise, Martin is filled with a tight, gripping anxiety that settles heavily on him, seeming to thicken as the days tick past. He knows that he’s been… clingy, for lack of a better word, since coming out of the Lonely. He’s tried to rein it in, for the sake of this new, budding relationship between them, but ever since that conversation… it’s spilling out of him, quite beyond his control. He knows it’s making Jon antsy, tainting the air between them, but he can’t _stop._ By the time three days – tense, quiet, awkward days, barely broken by snatches of stilted conversation – Martin thinks he may be going slightly mad with it. He can hardly stand to be out of sight of Jon, but by this point the stress is so strong he also can’t really bear being in the same room as him. Not for the first time, he wonders if it’s all a mistake: running from the police to a safehouse miles from anywhere, with the man he’s loved for _years_ but only just stepping from friends to more…

It comes to a head on the fourth day After Statement, as he’s starting to think of it. In the morning, to be specific. Martin wakes up slowly, the lingering chill of his dream starting to evaporate off him. Nightmare, not dream, probably, although he’s not sure he knows the difference any more. It was the Lonely; it always is. The huge, echoing emptiness, and the bone-deep knowledge that no one will care enough to look for him. He rolls over, reaching vaguely towards Jon’s side of the bed, towards the warm body that has been there since they moved up here, and finds it –

\- empty.

He bolts upright. It’s quiet. Very quiet, no sound of the radio or the pipes rumbling quietly. A ruffle of a breeze outside, and maybe some distant birds. But no sounds of people.

No sounds of Jon.

The cold strikes back into him, like a snake that was waiting for its moment.

No. _No._ He can’t – he can’t be alone here. He can’t be back in the fog.

He stumbles out of bed, clumsy with sleep and dread, and shoves himself into jeans and a sweatshirt without really stopping to look at them. He makes it to the stairs, somehow, and nearly falls down them in his hurry. It’s not even fully light out, a half-light that casts the cramped hallway and the kitchen beyond in shades of dull grey and blue.

The back door out of the kitchen is open.

Sitting on the concrete step outside is Jon.

Martin must make a noise, of some kind, because Jon turns, sees him, then does a double-take.

“Martin? Are you… okay?”

“I…” Words seem to stick in Martin’s throat. _I woke up and you were gone_ feels pathetic. _I thought I was back in the Lonely_ isn’t much better. “Uh, yes. Just… didn’t know where you’d gone.”

Jon frowns, and Martin has a horrible feeling that he’s understood _exactly_ what he wasn’t saying. In wordless explanation, he raises his hand so Martin can see the cigarette he’s holding. “Didn’t want to wake you up.”

Martin breathes out, long and shuddering with relief. It makes him feel a little weak, unsteady on his feet. “Well. Maybe, next time, _do_ wake me up, please?”

“Of course.” Jon grinds the cigarette out on the step and stands up, turning round properly. “I… I’m sorry Martin, I didn’t think…”

“No, you didn’t,” Martin says, with more snap than he’d intended. “You didn’t think that maybe, _maybe,_ after you went around talking about – about _offing_ yourself, I might _not_ want to wake up and find that you were gone – ”

“I did promise not to – ” Jon tries to cut in, but Martin’s in full flow now and he doesn’t think he could stop if he tried.

“ – You do realise you’re literally, _literally_ all I have now, don’t you? Do you know that, Jon? I gave up everything, everyone in my life to join the Lonely, to try and _protect_ you all, and then – then it all went to shit anyway, didn’t it? And now – now Daisy’s gone, and Melanie wants nothing to do with us, and Basira’s too busy trying to hold it all together. And it’s just you left. And I can’t… I don’t think I can cope if I lose you to.” The last couple of words tangle up in his throat, choking, and he realises he’s crying. He folds into a chair like a puppet with its strings cut, and drops his face into his hands to preserve a tiny shred of his dignity. Then immediately ruins that, of course, because once he stops talking, he can feel the sobs building in his chest and trying to escape up past his lips. He clamps his mouth shut, holds them in, but the tremors rack through his shoulders anyway, there’s – there’s no way Jon won’t notice that.

Sure enough, a hand lights on his shoulder, tentative. “I… Martin. Martin, would you look at me, please?”

He resists the urge to shake his head like a child, even if that’s all he really wants to do, and looks up. Jon is fixing him with a soft, worried look, and it reminds him strongly of just after he’d first given a statement, after escaping from his flat when Jane Prentiss had trapped him. God, that felt like lifetimes ago. But Jon had given him the same look then, and at the time Martin had marked it down, put a pin in it labelled “the first time Jon was nice to me”. This time, though, Jon reaches out and gently cradles Martin’s face in one hand, running a thumb across his cheekbone.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, voice a little rough at the edges.

“It’s fine, it’s just me being _stupid_ – ”

“I don’t mean for getting up this morning,” Jon interrupts, “although I am also sorry for that. No, I mean… I… I wish you weren’t in this position. I wish none of us were. It’s… really fucked up.” That, at least, manages to make Martin chuckle weakly, although he’s still crying. “And it’ll… it’ll probably stay fucked up, at least for a while. But I… I am glad, that I’ve got you here. With me. And I won’t leave you alone. Never, not so long as I have any say in the matter.”

Martin scrapes together a watery smile. “I know. I know you wouldn’t. I just… I’m scared, Jon.”

“I know.” Jon brushes his hair back, gentle. “I am too, if I’m honest. But we’ll find a way.”

He looks so serious, so sincere, and Martin can’t resist stretching up to kiss him, even though he’s all teary and probably kind of gross. It’s still new and electric-thrilling to get to do this, to have it be okay, and he can feel some of the tension drain out of Jon’s shoulders as he relaxes into it. It’s not a magic cure, it’s not going to chase the fear away, but for now, in a quiet kitchen in a Scottish cabin, it’s the closest he can get to happiness. And he leans into it, and tries to make himself believe. _We’ll find a way._

* * *

It’s nice to pretend, in a way, that there’s no outside world and all they need to focus on is the two of them, within their own four walls. However, there’s a limit to how long their supplies will last – and while Daisy’s safehouse is well stocked in canned goods, there is also a limit to how desperate they are for food. Jon is also burning through his supply of statements (all carefully screened by Martin first). Eventually, there is nothing else for it: Martin needs to head into town. They’d agreed, back at the start, that as a pair they are too distinctive, and of the two Martin is less conspicuous. He’s not exactly great at blending in, his height tending to draw people’s eyes, but Jon’s scarring is distinctive enough to mark him out, even if people somehow wouldn’t notice his brown skin in an overwhelmingly white village. Even as he eats the last of the bread for breakfast (the sad heels of the loaf, definitely stale and past their best), Martin finds himself hovering. Jon notices, of course.

“Martin, I’ll be _fine._ I promised you, didn’t I?”

“Yes. Yes, I know, I just…” He fidgets with the cuff of his jumper sleeve. “I’m just worried about you. I… you know I love you, right?”

Jon smiles, a soft curl to his mouth. “Of course I know that. And… you know I... I feel the same.” He reaches across the table to take hold of Martin’s hand. “I won’t even look at a statement while you’re gone, if that would make you feel better. But we _do_ need food.”

“I know. I know, it’ll all be fine.” Maybe if he says it enough, he’ll believe it. “Right. Yes. Shopping. Got any requests? Bearing in mind the limitations of being in a tiny village.”

Jon squeezes his hand, and that does help a little. “Custard creams, if they’ve got them? All we have left is bourbons, they’re not as good.”

That at least succeeds in making Martin smile, although he rolls his eyes too. “Not as good if you’re a _heathen,_ Jon. Honestly, I don’t even know why I like you sometimes.”

“But you _do_ like me,” Jon says, satisfied, eyes crinkling a little at the corners. “And it’s not your fault you’re wrong.”

“I – _I’m_ wrong? I – you – no. No, I won’t listen to this biscuit based slander. I’m going now.” He stands, but pauses before leaving to get his coat. He lingers next to Jon’s chair long enough that Jon looks up at him. Martin can’t really help himself at that, and leans down to steal a kiss, just a quick brush of his lips against Jon’s. He feels Jon smile, and slide a hand to the back of Martin’s head, hold him in place a moment longer before letting go.

“I’ll see you later,” Jon says, and Martin can _definitely_ hear a note of satisfaction in his voice. “Let me know if there are any good cows.”

“Of course I’ll tell you if there are any good cows,” Martin agrees, and grabs his coat from the hook in the hall before stepping out into a mizzling, grey morning.

* * *

Despite the light mood he left in, being away from the house is still grating on Martin’s nerves by the time he’s called Basira to get an update on the situation in London. They had decided not to tell her about Jonah Magnus’s false statement, afraid that too much scrutiny from her would only draw his eye and put her at risk. It sounds like the police presence is starting to wane, although it’s still sufficiently chaotic that he reckons they’ll still have a couple of weeks reprieve before they need to arrive at a more concrete plan. He’s finished shopping, packing his backpack and bags with the essentials they need and making sure he has some _decent_ biscuits as well as Jon’s requested custard creams. He makes his trip to the post office last, collecting the fat statement envelope Basira has sent to keep Jon going. He’s feeling pretty laden as he starts the walk back home – another reason Jon is roundly banned from doing the routine shop. The thin drizzle has upgraded itself to sharp, stinging rain, not heavy enough to really soak into his clothes but enough to chill his face and run into his eyes.

It’s maybe because of the cold that he doesn’t notice the first, faint note of a deeper chill that brushes against him. It’s only after he pauses to adjust the shopping bag he has slung over his shoulder that he feels it clearly: a shiver that is more than skin deep, a whisper of ice into his mind. The distinct touch of the Lonely.

He whips around, panicked. Peter Lukas was _gone,_ Jon had been sure of that, and who else could have followed them here? The lane is empty, but – well, that’s not really very reassuring. The chill comes again, and this time, it has more direction. It’s… coming from the hedge, where cars have scraped out a rough passing-place into the verge, currently slick with mud from the rain. Despite himself, Martin steps closer. He can’t see anyone there. In fact, he can’t see much at all beyond the wet leaves of the hedge, and a saturated cardboard box half-buried at the bottom.

He hears the box squeak.

Probably unwisely, he rests the bag in his right hand on his shoes, trying to avoid putting it on the wet ground, and reaches out, flipping open the top flap of the box. It’s shadowed by the hedge, and in the gloomy light it takes him a moment to realise what he’s seeing.

Inside the box is a kitten.

Well, two, sort of. He can see even at a glance that it’s too late for the sad, damp scrap of fur at the back that is too still and too silent. But crowding forwards, trying to stretch enough to peep over the edge, is a young cat – not more than seven or eight weeks, he would guess – bedraggled and muddy, with two huge, gold-yellow eyes staring up at him. It squeaks again, and he feels that spike of Lonely cold, and he understands. The chill wasn’t something attacking him. It was a cry for help.

He scoops the kitten up carefully, feeling how thin its ribs are under its matted fur, and cradles it into his lap. It tries to burrow into his coat almost immediately, as if it can feel the warmth of his skin calling to it.

“Hello,” he says, soft, trying not to startle it. “Where have you come from?”

He looks around. There’s not a house in sight, and the closest one is the cottage he and Jon have been staying in. There’s no way this box had arrived here by accident.

“Well,” he says, watching the little cat try to press itself as close to him as possible. “I guess you’d better come with me.”

It’s a bit of a juggling act, trying to keep hold of his shopping while finding a way to tuck the kitten in somewhere it’ll be safe and at least vaguely warm until he gets home. Eventually, he abandons his scarf to the cause and wraps the kitten securely, snuggling it into the crook of his arm as he loads his bags onto the other shoulder. Luckily it’s not too far left to walk, only another mile or so, and he makes it back as quick as he can, bag straps cutting into his shoulder, precious cargo kept safe against his chest.

Jon’s in the living room when he gets back, and the sight of him loosens a knot Martin had only vaguely been aware of in his chest. He looks up, smiles at Martin as he walks in, and then spots that Martin is holding something awkwardly and stands up from the sofa to get a better look.

“What - ?” he starts to ask, and the kitten chooses that moment to poke its head out from the scarf bundle. It meets Jon’s gaze, seemingly fearless, and starts to purr.

Martin, in this moment, gets to witness something he never thought he would see: Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, melts. His face softens, and he reaches forwards almost involuntarily, scooping the kitten out of Martin’s grip and cuddling it against his chest. The purring intensifies, a surprisingly loud sound from such a tiny body.

“Hello, little one,” Jon… coos, it’s the only word for it. “Martin, where did you find this?”

“In the lane,” Martin says, starting to shed his heavy bags onto the floor now his hands are both free. “I think… I think someone dumped it.”

“Dumped _her,_ ” Jon corrects gently. Martin assumes this is another _knowing_ thing, unless Jon has a secret past as a vet.

“She was… alone,” Martin says, and Jon seems to understand. He steps closer so he can reach Martin, and leans full-body against him. The warmth seeps across all the places they touch, and gently dispels any traces of Martin’s lingering anxiety. Jon is fine, Jon did not do anything reckless and dangerous and irrevocable while he was out, the world is still running as close to normal as it ever does. He lets out a breath he’s probably been holding ever since he left, and lets himself lean into Jon slightly, resting his cheek against Jon’s greying hair. “Do you think I should find a shelter or something to take her to?”

Jon ‘hmm’s softly. “I mean… we probably should. But I doubt whoever left her wants her back…”

Martin tucks his smile against Jon’s temple to hide it. He should have known. “You want to keep her, don’t you?”

“I… don’t you? I mean, _look_ at her…”

Martin looks. It is, admittedly, quite a compelling argument. “What would we do with a cat though? We don’t… we’d need things. Food. And… we’re not staying here forever…”

“I know.” Jon is still looking at the kitten, apparently hypnotised by her gaze. “But… we could take her with us, couldn’t we? When we leave?”

Martin sighs, although there’s no real feeling behind it. He knows he’s already lost – probably was from when he first opened the box, if he’s honest. And seeing Jon so entranced by her… maybe a reminder that he’s still got some human in him could only be a good thing. “Do you even know how to take care of a kitten? What if she needs… milk, or something?”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “I have looked after cats before, you know.” Oh, Martin knows. He has listened to Jon wax quite poetic about the Admiral on more than one occasion. “And… well, if I _have_ to be tied to an eldritch fear monster that thrives on knowledge… I might as well get some kitten-care information out of the deal.”

“You…” Martin takes a second to consider just how weird his life has become. “You mean you… _Know-_ know how to look after her?”

“Seems so,” Jon says, although he says it more to the kitten than to Martin, because he’s bent his head down and seems very intent on scratching between her ears. Honestly, Martin feels a little like he should be jealous that someone else is stealing Jon’s undivided attention, but it is… well, incredibly precious.

“Well. That’s… handy, I guess.” Now his hands are kitten-free, he starts unpacking the shopping onto the kitchen worktop. He makes sure to leave the custard creams out (he tells himself it’s so they don’t sully the rest of the biscuits through contact), and digs through the pile to see if they have anything even remotely cat-friendly. He comes up with some tinned tuna, and also vaguely recalls some highly dubious canned chicken in Daisy’s stockpile. It’ll do for now. He puts the perishables in the fridge, and puts the kettle on to set about making tea. As he putters about, putting the rest of the shopping into the small cupboards and getting out mugs and the box of Yorkshire tea, he can hear Jon’s voice, muffled through the wall. He’s talking to the cat. No, that’s not quite it.

He’s _singing_ to the cat.

The kettle finishes its boil, clicking off and quieting down, and that’s enough for Martin to pick up the threads of the song. He can’t quite make out the words, but he can hear the rise and fall of Jon’s soft, scratchy voice, the gentle rhythm of the melody that might be a lullaby, might just be nonsense. It feels like Martin’s heart is squeezing against his ribs. It occurs to him, as he pours water over the teabags, that he might never have been as happy as this before.

He hooks the mug handles through the fingers of one hand, picks up the biscuit packets with the other (custard creams and _real biscuits,_ thank you) and heads through to the living room. Jon must hear him coming, because he stops singing, more’s the pity. But when Martin rounds the doorframe, he finds Jon on the ratty sofa, kitten curled into his arms, sleepily purring still. He looks… contended. More relaxed than Martin’s ever seen him. He smiles when he sees the yellow biscuit package, although has the good grace not to comment. Martin puts the mugs down on the wobbly coffee table, tangles his fingers into the soft strands of Jon’s hair, and kisses him, firm and insistent. It’s warm and perfect and he feels like he could live in this moment for the rest of his life and want for absolutely nothing.

When he breaks away to sit down, he doesn’t go far, staying pressed against Jon’s side. Jon frees one arm from cat duty to run his fingers down the inside of Martin’s arm, tracing patterns aimlessly. It’s blissful.

Martin knows that this can’t last forever. They still have Jonah Magnus to deal with, hanging over them like a storm cloud. They have the avatars of the fears probably baying for their blood. Daisy is missing, the Institute is in shambles, and the world may or may not be headed for catastrophe. But in this moment, right here, he can pretend that life is normal. That life is good.

**Author's Note:**

> TW expansion:  
> \- Talk of suicide: after discovering the ritual to end the world, Jon initially intends to kill himself to avoid it happening and discusses this with Martin. He is not suicidal in the depressed sense, but believes it would be for the greater good. It is not framed as a good idea.  
> \- Description of panic attack/anxiety: Martin experiences this while discussing the ritual with Jon  
> \- Mention of animal death: Martin finds an abandoned kitten in a box, with another that has already passed away "off-screen". The kitten he finds alive is fine. 
> 
> Whew. This is sadder than I'm used to writing. I blame the real Jonny Sims for making it all very tragic. I've obviously left this a tiiiiny bit open for continuation, but also I'm starting a job like... next week, so probably won't be writing much. If you'd like to hang out with me on tumblr where I post next to zero original content and mostly reblog a very random selection of stuff... firstly, you have weird taste, and secondly, you can do so here at [storynerd](https://storynerd.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> Also, Jon is 100% wrong about biscuits, custard creams are not in any way superior to bourbons and anyone who thinks otherwise is misguided, you can argue with me but you're wrong. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
